


Little Lamb, who made thee?

by nolimepercipere



Series: Songs of Innocence [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Child Neglect, Gen, Little Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova Centric, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Needs a Hug, Non-Sexual Age Play, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolimepercipere/pseuds/nolimepercipere
Summary: Nicolò doesn’t have many memories from before… He doesn’t remember ever being held.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova & Original Character(s)
Series: Songs of Innocence [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101896
Comments: 8
Kudos: 126





	Little Lamb, who made thee?

**Author's Note:**

> First of all let me thank everyone who left comments and/or kudos on my last fic. You were all so kind and I'm glad to know you enjoyed it.  
> This was supposed to be a short story explaining why Joe calls Nicky “little lamb” but then… it kinda evolved into this. I have given up on trying to control where these stories want to go to be completely honest.  
> The title comes for William Blake’s The Lamb.  
> This is set both before and after [“Sleep, little soul of me”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490928)  
> Once again I apologize for any mistakes as this was not beta’d and English is not my first language.  
> (Translations in the End Notes)

Nicolò doesn’t have many memories from before… before the olive trees and cold stones of Tabia – even colder hands and words, rousing and guiding him. _Cottidie orandum_ , teaching him to pray. _Cottidie laborandum_ , teaching him to work. 

Likewise, he’s not sure of when it started. 

What he remembers is seeing children, the same age as his own, coming to the abbey on certain days, held by their mothers. 

He doesn’t remember ever being held. 

He asked, once, if he too had a mother and where he could find her. Padre Mariano had pointed to one of the frescos in the chapel, “We are all children of Mary and she is Mother to us all”.

“But I meant a re-”, realizing what he was about to say, Nicolò stopped himself, hopefully just in time. Nails and teeth leaving similar deep indents on his palms and lips. 

When all that meets him is silence, his uneasiness starts to turn to panic. He hadn’t meant to sound disappointed or, worse, ungrateful. Slowly, warily, he raises his head up. 

Padre Mariano is looking at him with pity and deep sorrow. With a whisper he tells him to look deep into his heart, that that’s where he will always find his mother. 

He obeys the advice – _Obauditu auris oboedivit mihi_ – and, looking deep inside himself, he finds a comfort he didn’t think could exist. 

In the dark of his cell and in the silence of his mind, arms wound tight around himself, he can slip to another world. A bright and warm life where he can picture a sweet woman with hair the color of honey. She would hug him the way he’d seen other children be hugged and she would sing while she puttered around in their kitchen. Nicolò could sing for her, too. 

Or, if he wanted, he could picture a man with hands big and work-roughened, but gentle. He’d use them to ruffle Nicolò’s hair and to hold his smaller hands in his own. He would show Nicolò how to catch fish in the Fiumara and hold him high in his arms to pick the sweetest fruits from the highest branches which they would share laughing. 

It doesn’t only happen at night, in his cell. Sometimes, when he takes a walk alone, Nicolò finds himself slipping into a similar state. Everything suddenly is extremely interesting: the trees, the clouds in the sky, he’ll find weird shapes in the moss growing on the abbey’s walls and he'll lose himself, tracing and touching, marveling in the experience. When he comes to, he's usually be alone. Sometimes one of the brothers is standing close, looking at him the way you would a pest, or something particularly unpleasant. 

Nicolò can only lower his eyes and go back to whatever chore he has been assigned for the day.

* * *

When they send him to Santo Stefano, Nicolò finds himself surrounded by other boys his age for the first time. He notices immediately they don’t seem to share his tendency to get lost in his mind. 

They ridicule him, the first night in the dormitory, when they see him bring his thumb to his mouth. Nicolò had never had to share quarters at night before, at least since he could remember, he wasn’t aware that finding comfort in nursing on his thumb was considered childish – “Something a boy your age should since have outgrown at this point in your life”, as one of the elder brothers explained to him once he’d shushed everyone else back to sleep.

The cacophony of the city makes slipping into his head a little more difficult for Nicolò, but when he manages to do it, it brings him even more calm and comfort than it had back in Tabia. 

The taunts from his peers last well into months, but there isn’t much he can do about it – _Passus iniuriam, taceat_. Devoting himself to manual work helps him free his mind. He likes working in the garden particularly and praising the Lord with his voice in the choir. It is so easy to get lost in the music and the echoes reverberating around and around inside his head. 

At night, he still hugs himself tight. Luckily, no one ever finds fault with that. 

* * *

The first time Nicolò realizes he would like to be able to share his secret world with someone else is during the journey to the Holy Land.

He'd followed the Drunkard together with other men from Liguria – men of church like him and secular ones both – but he had no familiarity with any of them. Surely, the fault laid mostly on him as he'd often been told his countenance was somewhat unsettling to behold, not inspiring of love or amiability. 

He’s been sitting against a broken-down, ancient looking wall in their stop in Pontecorvo. His threadbare cowl offering a flimsy shield against the early morning chill cutting deep to his bones. His mind is still sluggish with sleep when he hears a booming voice, with what he’d come to recognise as a Roman lilt to it, addressing him from above “What are you doing, _scricciolo_?”.

“I’m older than I look”, Nicolò can’t hold in the brusque reply. He is hungry, tired and cold, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he looks up with a grimace ready to apologize as it won’t do him any good to offend someone. Standing in front of him, he finds a man of impressive build with a grizzled beard and good-natured eyes sparking with mirth down at him, “I meant no offense, little one. I saw you all huddled up with that beak of yours peeking out, the comparison seemed fitting”.

Nicolò doesn’t know how to react so he contents himself with blinking up at the strange man.

“Have you broken fast yet?”as he inquires, he’s already extended his hand down. An offer for Nicolò to take, “Come with me!” he keeps smiling.

Flustered, Nicolò can feel his ears growing hot and curses his skin’s propension for showing his embarrassment so easily, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience-”

The strange man decides to take matters literally into his hands, gently grabbing Nicolò’s arm and tugging him up from where he’s been sitting, “There, there. I would dishonor the name of my family if I didn’t share what is mine with you!”.

The man introduces himself as Leone Frangipane, apparently he comes from an old Roman family. He has kind eyes and his hands are big and work-roughened, but gentle. He is kind to Nicolò, taking him under his wing during the long journey.

Nicolò can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be held by his arms, soothed and rocked to sleep in his lap the way he’d seen mothers and fathers do for their babes.

He thinks Leone wouldn’t be cruel if he told him, not like the boys in Santo Stefano. But this is the happiest he’s ever felt and he doesn’t want to risk it.

One day Leone overhears Nicolò singing while sharpening his blade – something Leone himself had taught Nicolò only days before. How heartwarming it had been for Nicolò to have Leone’s hands guiding his own with the same care he’d always thought Giuseppe would reserve for his blessed son. 

“My goodness, it seems like I made a mistake in calling you _scricciolo_ upon our first meeting. I should have called you _usignolo_. Where did you learn to sing like that, Nicolò?”.

As usual, Nicolò feels his face burn at the praise, “Nowhere, I just... I always sang in church. I’m not sure my voice is anything speci-”

“It is truly a gift from God! Come now, sing something else for me _usignolo_ ”. Nicolò smiles and sings for Leone.

Looking back on it, the long journey along the Via Egnatia had truly been the happiest Nicolò had ever been. Leone, clearly a worldly man, delighted in showing Nicolò around and Nicolò basked in the attention. So much that at times he’d forgotten where they were headed.

Once they boarded the ship to Dyrrachium he noticed a slight change in Leone, his smiles still as honest but not as bright as before. In a way, though, it helps sober Nicolò up and refocus on what awaits them in the East, “Are they really the terrible beasts I’ve heard of, the Saracens?”, he ventures the question one night.

The deep frown lines look so out of place on Leone’s face, they have Nicolò wanting to beg forgiveness immediately.

“I believe they are fighting for what they think is right, dear Nicolò. Same as we are”, with that Leone turns his kind eyes down at him with a bittersweet smile before ruffling his hair and bidding him farewell for the night.

* * *

Only two days have passed since they’d reached their destination and this morning one of the _balestrieri_ had let Nicolò try Genova’s famed crossbow and had deemed him a born marksman, promising him further lessons if he could find a bow of his own. 

Immediately, he wants to tell Leone, wants to bask in his praise. He knows the man will be proud of him – impressing a _balestriere_ is no easy feat – maybe he will even hug Nicolò. He can feel his cheeks burn, not sure if from the stretch of his smile or from the blush that must be glowing bright on them. 

No one had ever hugged him. 

Leone’s hug would certainly be special and maybe Nicolò could even tell him. 

In his haste he doesn’t realize he’s reached Leone’s tent already. He only does when his steps are blocked by a short, burly man whose name Nicolò doesn’t know. He'd seen him sharing words with Leone in Constantinople though. 

“What are you doing here, _monachello_?” he looks tired.

“I wished to see Leone... I can come back later if he-”

Pained eyes look up at his, “You don’t know?”

Nicolò feels himself freeze. The cold sweeping over him like those times he’d had to sneak out to bathe in the winter waters of the Fiumara as a child. It’s not supposed to be this cold in the Holy Land.

“I’m sorry, _monachello_ , a skirmish this morning...”, if there are any other words Nicolò loses them to the ringing in his ears. It can’t be true. 

“There was nothing our men could do to help him... I was told it was quick”, he feels clumsy fingers squeezing his shoulder in sympathy. 

He never got to hug Leone or to tell him. And now he never will. 

Numb and silent, he turns on his steps, headed towards the market. 

He has a bow to acquire. 

* * *

Yusuf is an oxymoron. He makes everything simultaneously easier and more complicated. He’s the first and only person who knows about Nicolò’s secret. 

It’s easy, with him, to let himself go soft. But when it’s done, Yusuf is like a tongue constantly prodding against an aching tooth. He can’t seem to let things be, he always wants to talk about the why and the how.

“Is it like a game to you? A play?” Nicolò feels his shoulders tense as he waits for more, “You know, once I heard of a man who liked to pretend to be a-”

“Stop it! It’s not a game, nor a play, I- '', he stops himself, conscious of how loud his voice raised. 

He knows Yusuf doesn’t mean to harm or belittle him. Just two weeks ago he had spent an entire afternoon holding Nicolò in his arms, even resorting to carrying him around like a small babe clinging to his mother’s chest when he’d needed to move around their shared room. Nicolò had felt embarrassed by his own neediness, but Yusuf had reassured him – He’d ruffled his hair and called him cute. 

Logically, Nicolò knows that Yusuf is not trying to be cruel, but he can’t help the surge of discomfort that comes with being questioned. 

He’s brought out from his thoughts by the feeling of fingers gentling his grip open, slowly guiding him to unclench the tight fists he’d unconsciously formed. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend you”, big and expressive brown eyes try to make contact with Nicolò’s own pale ones, “I truly wish to understand what it is like for you… so I can better help you when you need me”.

Nicolò feels even more foolish now, faced with that much devotion and kindness. He pauses to draw in a fortifying breath, “ _È un po’ come sprofondare_ ”. He blushes when he realizes he had unconsciously reverted back to his native language. Yusuf, still holding on to his hands, tilts his head to the side trying to make sense of what he heard. “You mean, like drowning?”, he scrunches up his nose in confusion. 

Nicolò lets out a low grumble, frustrated with his inability to properly put into words what happens to him in those moments. 

“No, not drowning. Something more gentle. It’s like-”, he pulls his hands from Yusuf’s gentle hold to run them through his hair, annoyed at himself. 

How can he describe what he feels? Yusuf always makes it look so easy, turning even the most mundane of their days into poetry. Suddenly, a memory strikes him, maybe one of the best days in his otherwise bleak childhood. 

Elated, he grabs Yusuf’s hands with his own, “It’s like being surrounded by lambs and laying down on their fluffy wool. Everything feels soft and cozy and it’s like-” he raises his gaze to find Yusuf barely containing his laughter. Embarrassment washes over him and he lets go once again of Yusuf’s hands and hastily turns his back to him, “Stop laughing!”. He is so flustered he can feel his cheeks, ears, and neck burning hot. 

Immediately, he feels arms wrap around him, and is drawn tight against Yusuf’s chest. “Please, Nicolò. I wasn’t laughing at your experience, it’s just... “like laying down in lambs”, habibi? We have to work on your similes”. 

Nicolò feels himself relax against the comforting touch, “Not everyone can be born a gifted poet”.

Yusuf maneuvers Nicolò so that they can face each other. He gently touches their forehead together, “Shh, don’t be cross with me, little lamb”. Nicolò finds it impossible not to mirror the smile on Yusuf’s lips.

* * *

“Who’s this little guy? It’s so cute!” Nicolò turns around to see Nile holding in her hand the small, soft toy that just moments ago had been propped up innocently on one of the shelves that lined the room. “Oh, Joe bought that for me”, he can feel his expression going soft at the memory, thinking of how happy and proud Joe had been when he’d finally relented and gave him permission to buy it.

Nile immediately raises an eyebrow, “I didn’t know you liked plushies, Nicky”, and for a moment a part of him worries that she is going to make fun of him. Bracing for the cutting words and thinking up excuses he could make. But she simply smiles wide at Nicky, happy like she has just been let in on a secret, “This is the first one I see around, do you have many others? I used to have a giraffe when I was little”.

“I’m afraid I have just this one”, he walks up to her and gives her a smile. Then tentatively adds, ”for now”.

Nile hums in consideration, giving one last pet to the soft toy and then placing it back among the small collection of daggers and knives that keeps the lamb company on the shelf, “It kinda looks out of place here”.

Before he can even think of an answer, Nicky feels arms gently wrap around his waist and the warmth of Joe’s voice reverberating against his back, “I think it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be”.

**Author's Note:**

>  _“Cottidie orandum, Cottidie laborandum”:_ “Praying every day. Working every day” the Latin is from Columbanus Monastic Rule.  
>  _“Obauditu auris oboedivit mihi”:_ “As soon as he heard me, he obeyed me” this time from the Benedectine Rule  
>  _“Passus iniuriam, taceat”:_ “If you are offended, be silent” from Columbanus Monastic Rule once again  
>  _“Scricciolo”:_ “Winter Wren”, in Italian it’s also used to refer to a young child or someone who’s tiny/small (I have no idea if this was true in 11th century Italy, but we’re gonna pretend it was)  
>  _“Usignolo”:_ “Nightingale”  
>  _“Balestrieri”:_ “Crossbowmen” referring to the famed Genoese military corps  
>  _“Monachello”:_ “little monk”  
>  _“È un po’ come sprofondare”:_ “It’s a little bit like falling into/sinking into” in Italian, because I don’t speak Zeneize
> 
> The Drunkard refers to [Guglielmo Embriaco](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guglielmo_Embriaco).  
> There was really a Frangipane family in Rome and, likewise, a Leone Frangipane who lived around the time this story takes place. The character in the story though is totally made up, I don’t even know if the real Leone took part in the crusade or not. I simply liked the story behind their surname, which he references when he offers food to Nicky in their first encounter (In the year 717 there was a great flood in Rome, one of the Frangipane ancestors distributed bread to the poor who cried out to him 'Frange nobis panem', that is, “break bread for us”. "Frangere" in Latin means "to break", and "panis" means "bread". After that, the family came to be known as "Frangipane".)
> 
> Thank you for reading and feel free to ask questions or leave prompts if you want (either here in the comments or on [tumblr](https://thoualamb.tumblr.com/)), I can’t promise you I’ll write anything you ask for, but I’ll do my best and see if the inspiration strikes ♥


End file.
